[B-Deck] Organized Chaos

[Durant, M.]

1223 Hours, June 16, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Aboard UNSC Vengeance, Cryo Bay Two, en route to
Phoenix III, Alpha Phoenicis System

The edges of his vision was blurred, as were the faces of the young children that surrounded him. Despite the haziness, he recognized the area in which he found himself. It was an old park a few blocks away from his parents' estate. The sounds of children running back and forth on the playground, laughing with glee, reached his ears.

Michael glanced down at his feet. He had on a pair of old, worn-out sneakers -- ones he hadn't worn since his early childhood, roughly around the time after his sixth birthday or so. Caked all over his sneakers was dry, brown mud. Loose strands of fabric hung off his shoestrings. All in all, his shoes had seen far better days.

He vividly recalled how his parents had complained incessantly about them. They'd always demand that he toss them in the trash and start wearing the brand new, considerably more expensive pair of shoes that they had bought him for his birthday. He ignored their complaints and demands every time.

What was the point in getting rid of his shoes if they were still comfortable and fit him? His sneakers were wearable and already broken in, and he had no qualms with the condition in which they were in. He considered the sneakers to be his Old Faithful. They had been -- and to this day were -- his favorite pair of shoes. The best he'd ever owned. His parents were just uptight, and had never understood the value that he saw in that favorite pair of sneakers. To them, in their minds, his old pair of worn-out shoes were an insult to their way of life. Their greatest fear was that others would look at their son and the shoes he wore, and judge them harshly because of it. Perhaps look down on them because they had the money to replace them, but didn't.

Such was the price of being born into a wealthy, snobby family.

Snapping out of his reverie, Michael craned his head to the left, his eyes falling upon the distant, sun streaked horizon. Instantly he noticed something terribly wrong. Off in the distance, in the foreground of the far off horizon, was the sprawling capitol of his home world. The towering spires that seemed to reach all the way up and touch the heavens above were ablaze, black smoke billowing into the cloud layer perched above.

One of the buildings buckled, from the intense heat encompassed within its interior or from other means, he didn't know. It leaned precariously to the right, and then collapsed to the city streets below, debris and obsidian smoke trailing after it. Michael took a step back in shock, and his eyes instinctively shot up to the sky over where the building had stood. His eyes went as wide as saucers as they laid upon the cause of the city's fiery downfall.

Suspended a hundred meters above the skyline was the long, bulbous form of a Covenant battlecruiser. It loomed over the capitol like a vulture sharply eying its prey. Its talons, the powerful plasma projectors strewn along its undercarriage, were poised to strike with a bright crimson glow. Michael watched in terror as the beam of energy finished charging and fired. A single steady beam of violet-white superheated plasma bore into a nearby skyscraper and sliced it cleanly in two, melting the dense metal in a matter of milliseconds.

The shock wave projected from the blast possessed enough concussive force behind it to tear the surrounding buildings to shreds. Above the battlecruiser, a pair of corvettes descended from high orbit and assumed positions on either side of the massive alien ship, preparing to blanket the city in plasma fire. The corvette to the left of the battlecruiser turned on an invisible axis, its nose turning to point in the direction in which Michael was standing.

Its engines sparked to life with a thunderous roar, and the corvette began accelerating towards the park. The Covenant were going to glass the entire planet from low orbit. Eventually more ships would arrive, and they would spread out like a pack of wolves searching for prey.

Suddenly, Michael's instincts kicked into high gear. He looked around and saw that the other children had scattered and disappeared, fleeing in a vain attempt to escape the clutches of death at the hands of the Covenant. Michael knew that running was a futile endeavor, and the ultimate cowardice. The gods did not reward their followers for such heresy, but for bravery and sacrifice.

There was nothing that could be done about the fastly approaching corvette, of that he was sure. Not unless there was a magnetic accelerator cannon lying around somewhere that he didn't know about. He dismissed the thought, and decided that the best decision would be to find an assault weapon and take the fight to the Covenant on the ground. He would die, for sure -- either at the hands of the Covenant on the ground or the Corvette that intended to turn the area into glass -- but at least his death would come in battle against humanity's mortal enemies.

Mike whipped around to go off and seek some type of weapon he could use to defend himself when his eyes met with those of a Covenant Elite. It bore the blue armor of an inexperienced rookie. Its cold, black eyes settled upon him and its quadruple-hinged jaw clenched in mimicry of an evil human grin.

Before he could react, the alien bellowed a mighty battle cry and brought its weapon to bear on him. Durant froze, his mind going blank. Before his warrior instincts could take over -- before he'd even moved a muscle -- the alien opened fire. The bolt struck Michael in the chest, bringing him to the ground hard, and knocked the breath from his lungs. Desperately he gasped for air as he heard the heavy footfalls of the Elite as it approached his prone form.

A moment later it loomed over him, its face contorted in a look of cruel amusement and self-satisfaction. Michael placed his hand on his chest and immediately wrenched it away, his fingers sticky with warm, crimson blood. Wait... blood? There shouldn't be any, should there? he thought. Plasma was extremely hot, and thus should have cauterized his wound upon impact.

Durant didn't have much time to think on such a conundrum, however. The Elite chuckled menacingly and carefully raised its armored boot over Michael's head. It said something incomprehensible and then brought it down on his skull, which in turn popped like a water melon.

Instead of the cold darkness that he had anticipated in death, or the mystical plains of Valhalla, Durant found himself locked inside the cramped confines of a cryogenic stasis pod. He opened his mouth and gasped for air as he awakened from the dream, and sluggishly placed his hands on the cold metal hatch. His eyes darted to the window pane in its center, hoping to see someone outside the pod; but, instead, there was only a thick coating of ice and fog over the glass that fully obscured his view of the world outside of the pod.

Panic began to set in against his will. He felt trapped like a sardine, or like someone whom had been mistakenly buried alive in a metal casket. The sensation was largely foreign to him, as he wasn't claustrophobic. Yet, for some reason, he could not help the way he felt. There was nothing more that he wanted than to be free of the cryo-tube in which he was encased.

Whether someone had heard him stirring inside the pod, or had somehow read his panicked mind, the stasis unit began to cycle in preparation to be opened. A chill shot down his spine as a mist of airborne chemicals were released into the pod, meant to kickstart his body's immune system and internal organs. A few moments later there was a metallic hiss, and the hatch rose into the air.

Mist poured out from the now open pod, and the Lieutenant attempted to move for the first time in about a month. The muscles in his legs sluggishly responded to his brains signals, and he managed to climb out from the tube before his knees suddenly buckled. He crashed to the floor, just barely catching himself before his face hit the deck. There was a scurrying of feet nearby, and suddenly someone grabbed hold of the Lieutenant and wrapped a thin towel around his naked body.

He was about to look up to see who it had been that put the towel around him, when the nausea set in. He felt sick, like someone had punched him in the gut. Mike started to shiver uncontrollably; despite his irritably dry, itchy skin, he felt like he'd just stepped out from a cold shower and into a walk-in freezer. The temperature of the cryo room was reminiscient to that of the frozen produce aisle of a grocery store.

Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, Durant spewed his last meal onto the dull grey floor. Mucus gushed from his nostrils like a river, much like it had when he'd undergone the gas chamber shortly before he had graduated from Officer's Candidate School almost a full year ago. The whole ordeal was wholly unpleasant, but he took solace in knowing that it would come to pass once his body had expelled the crap they'd pumped him full of while asleep in the tube.

After a few minutes his stomach was completely empty, and Durant finally mustered the strength to stand up. He swayed back and forth as he tried to regain his balance, and then looked around the room he was in. Naval personnel in bright orange jumpsuits -- the cryo technicians responsible for thawing him from his icy slumber -- surrounded him.

A few of them were behind consoles, likely checking on the status of the occupants of the other cryo pods, while the rest monitored everything from afar. One of the technicians, a Tech First Class according to his sleeve insignia, approached him after having realized he was finally coherent. "Sorry for the quick thaw, sir," the technician apologized.

The name-tape stitched over the right breast pocket of his jumpsuit read "SEEGER." He scrutinized the Lieutenant for a moment before continuing. "If you don't mind, I need to run a few quick tests before you get dressed."

Durant, whom was still trying to wrap his head around what was going on, and push the thoughts of the nightmare to the wayside, nodded very slowly. "What's going on?" he asked quietly.

"Your platoon sergeant is being thawed as we speak, Lieutenant," Seeger replied. "Your CO, Captain Flannigan, will be here momentarily to brief you on the situation. Right now, I just need you to focus on me so that we can get these tests over with before he shows up."

Mike nodded in compliance. The technician, satisfied that he had the Lieutenant's attention, began the tests. He made sure that he was in good health and that his memories were intact. Cryo-sleep had a nasty tendency to inflict temporary amnesia upon a person that could last for hours or days. It was because of that, and many other reasons, that Durant preferred a bed over the freezers to sleep in. It was less hassle, and far less dangerous.

By the end of the tests, the tech seemed convinced that Durant was still in possession of his faculties, and he casually walked off towards Staff Sergeant Cruz's pod. The Lieutenant stood there for a moment, giving his brain some time to catch back up with him and process everything that had just happened. From the sounds of things, something big was about to go down. He had a feeling that he knew exactly what it was.

He turned to one of the nearby techs. "Excuse me... Chief?" he said, having paused for just a second to read the rank insignia on his sleeve. "Are we still in slipspace?"

The Chief shook his head. "No, sir. We came out about half an hour ago. The whole ship is on alert."

Alert? he questioned internally.

The tech must have seen the look on his face and realized that he hadn't fully comprehended what he'd told him. "The Covenant arrived before us, sir. We're en route to Phoenix III right now."

Durant nodded, and everything fell into place. He knew what he had to do now, so he thanked the Chief and made for the equipment lockers at the front of the chamber between the two exit doors. He paused as he tried to remember which one was his, and then approached one of them. The combination had been easy to remember, and he punched it into the keypad.

The locks disengaged with a metallic click and Durant swung the door open. His uniform was neatly hung up and his boots together at the bottom. He went about donning his clothes and put on his boots, quickly and carefully blousing the bottom of his trousers into them and lacing both boots up tight. The last thing he grabbed was his cover, which he placed squarely upon his head and shut the locker door.

When he turned around, he noticed that Staff Sergeant Cruz had finally emerged from his pod. Additionally, thanks to where he stood, he had an unobstructed view of the aisles adjacent to the one that he and his platoon occupied, and saw that lieutenants Hernandez and Johansson of third and first platoons respectively, along with their sergeants, had been thawed. They were currently being run through the same tests that he had just been subjected to by the Navy techs.

Looks like it's all hands on deck, he surmised. "We're about to be tossed into the fire and the flames," he murmured, finishing the train of thought aloud.

He could hardly stand to sit and wait.

The battlefield was where he belonged.

[Flannigan, S.]

"We've got everything laid out here sir," Zieed said quickly, the three data pads glowing on the table with the Company Operations Order. "Not bad for a half hour."

"Are the PL's up yet," Flannigan asked shortly. He wanted to get a move on it. The clock was running, 1500 Zulu wasn't as far off as he wanted. 

"Cryo is getting them up now," Matheson said quickly. "We should be able to have Leaders and Sergeants here in ten mikes."

"It'll have to do," Flannigan said. "Zieed, you've got chow. Start with three meals for everyone. Details will be by from each platoon to get their issue, but you need to pull it from supply."

"Roger sir," Zieed said with a nod. "See you at the hanger. Make sure you save me a seat."

"Roger First Sergeant," Flannigan said with a smile. "Matheson, you've got ammunition. Same deal. And don't forget we need to provide ammunition for the crew served weapons already there. This is an initial issue."

"Roger sir," Matheson said, leaving his seat. "Just make sure those platoon details send big boys. We're going to have a pile of bullets."

Flannigan nodded, watching his right and left hands move out into the passageways. Checking his watch, he wasn't overly pleased with the idea of waiting for ten minutes. He pulled up the holomap of their planned AO and stared heard at the bridge. That was where it would really be happening, and while he couldn't stay there, he would be there. He had to be there, at least for a while. Likely he would sit and rot at the CCP, but not entirely. He couldn't live like that.  

"Come on lads," he muttered. "We've got people ta save."

[Durant, M.]

Durant stood by the door that led out of the cryo bay and into the passages beyond. While he waited, Lieutenant Johansson approached him, having finished her evaluation and gotten dressed. He glanced at her and nodded politely in her direction. She returned the nod with a groggy smile.

"I hate the freezers," she said in her typical Bulgarian accent.

Michael chuckled at that. "Agreed."

"What're you waiting for?" she asked him.

"For Staff Sergeant Cruz to wake up and the Captain to get here," Durant replied.

Lieutenant Johansson regarded him with a look of confusion. He looked back at her, his brow cocked with equal confusion. "What?"

"I was told by one of the techs we had to go to Flannigan," she explained. "They didn't tell me he was coming to us."

That caught the Lieutenant by surprise. He glanced over at the tech that had subjected him to the tests when he had emerged from the pod, and saw that he was now running Cruz through the same crap. That man had told him Flannigan was on his way down to brief them right there, and now it appeared that man's claim could not be trusted.

"Damn squids," he mumbled under his breath while shaking his head.

"Huh?"

Durant shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing. I guess I'll follow you to wherever we're supposed to go."

Johansson smiled at him. "Probably a good idea."

It took a few minutes before the techs finally let Staff Sergeant Cruz go, and the entire time the Lieutenant swore up and down that he heard the man cursing at them. Cruz stormed his way over to the lockers and got dressed. A few moments later he appeared at Durant's side.

Mike grinned at him and then informed Johansson that he was ready. The trio waited for her platoon sergeant and the likes of Lieutenant Hernandez and his own sergeant to join them before exiting the cryo bay. Johannson took the lead, her sergeant right beside her, and she led the group down the passageway and through a door.

It took a few minutes of navigating the ship's passages before Durant figured out where they were headed. They turned a corner and headed straight for a door at the end of the corridor. Beyond that door was a ready room used by the ship's personnel for briefs and debriefs. The door opened when they were in proximity of it, and the group funneled through it into the room.

Johansson spoke for the group, reporting in to Captain Flannigan whom was standing in the back of the room, a datapad in front of him. Mike snapped to attention and awaited for the brief to begin. All the while he had a sinking feeling that they were about to hear some bad news.

[Flannigan, S.]

"All right kids, take a seat cuz we're on the clock," Flannigan said, motioning to the table. Tapping a few buttons, he pulled up the holomap and sent the OpOrd to the datapads that were at the table. "An hour ago we dropped out of slipspace to find out we're late. Covenant is already planetside. The Squids are pretty sure they can push the fleet back, but that leaves ground forces to us. Our simple rendezvous mission is scrapped. Operation FROST DRAGON is a go, so start reading. I don't have time to lay out all the details."

Another sequence of buttons pushed the holomap of the planet to zoom in on the capitol city. A wide angle shot showed the river and both shores, in a very general way. It was the general AO of the battle and was the best place to start. He brought up a few quick markers to show the positions of the other platoons and the HQ elements.

"As of our first read on the planet, the Colonial Army is holding the river right now. Not to bad for some backwards boys with shit tech. They need us and we're going in hot. You can see here where everyone is assigned for the MEU. This is all the more I care about for them. Here is our AO."

Another sequence zoomed in on the northern most bridge. Areas of Interested were highlighted with red, and the general overview left no major questions on first glance information. Giving them a ten count to take in the map, Flannigan started up again.

"Assignments are easy enough. First Platoon, you've got patrol of the banks. There have been reports of attempted breeches and the indicated grids. Any more information on the enemy situation and what to expect will be found in the OpOrd. Second Platoon, you have the bridge. You're going to have stationary defenses to man and you'll be bringing in extra ammo for them. Third Platoon, you'll have the easiest mission to start with, but may turn out to get into the deepest shit before its said and done. You are QRF, dealing with any drop ships that manage to get through our CAS. Your initial flight in and LZ should be a little cooler than the rest of us."

Flannigan looked around the table, making sure everyone was there with him, and the grim looks he saw on their faces showed that they understood. This was what they did, and he was proud to have them ready.

"Work orders are as follows. Thaw out your kids, get the suited and down to the hanger. There will be chatter messages with your hanger assignments coming through before your platoons are ready for them. I'm heading down to flight control after this meeting to get them. You're going to need a detail to link up with First Sergeant Zieed to get rations and a detail to link up with Lieutenant Matheson to draw your ammunition. Second Platoon, send a large detail. You've got a ton of ordinance going with you. Once you've drawn supplies, load up, PCCs PCIs, and get on the damn birds. We have a 1300 departure time so their is no time to waste. You've got comms channels and all your other information in your OpOrds. Any other questions you come up with will be sent via chatter. Only chance for questions is now. If you don't have any, you're dismissed."

[Durant, M.]

Right from the get-go, Durant realized that something was off. When Captain Flannigan had held the leadership meeting weeks back, he had told them that their mission mostly boiled down to garrison duty -- essentially, a lot of standby and wait for something to happen. Oscar Company was supposed to be QRF in case the Covenant attacked.

However, as their impromptu brief started to roll, he realized that that mission was scrubbed, even before the Captain could say it. The Covenant had arrived before the battlegroup, and now they were going with a new plan. One that appeared to be hastily put together on the fly. Mike glanced at Staff Sergeant Cruz, his expression grim. If they were racing against the clock, than that meant the situation planetside was dire. The UNSC needed their boots on the ground right away.

Durant retrieved his datapad from his pocket and opened up the company operation order that had been remotely downloaded to it. He skimmed over it while listening to Flannigan, and occasionally looking up to study the holographic layover of their assigned AO. He nodded when the Captain mentioned that Second Platoon were billeted to the bridge, and studied it.

There appeared to be two tiers to the bridge as he scrutinized the image. The upper tier was visible from the overhead layout, but the bottom tier was woefully obscured. He didn't like that, nor did he like the sound of having to split his platoon up to defend two levels. Two levels meant two avenues of approach that they had to cover. He only had three squads, and he figured that only one would be assigned to the bottom tier. Thirteen people guarding an entire level did not sit well with him.

I'll have to figure out a better way, he decided. He wasn't sure how yet, but he took solace in knowing he had at least a little bit of time afforded to him to figure it out. The Lieutenantnt looked at Cruz, trying to read his expression and get a feel for how he felt about all this. As usual, however, his face was an impervious mask. He couldn't read him.

The other lieutenants seemed just as weary about the tactical situation and the stakes of failure as he was. Lieutenant Hernandez more so than Johansson. Michael didn't like to think negatively of other people, but he'd heard of the freeze up Hernandez had had during training about a month ago. Half his platoon had been killed in the simulator, and now he was entrusted with leading the QRF for the company.

Durant wasn't sure if that was a wise decision on his CO's part, but there was nothing he could do or say about it that would change anything, and now was not the time to be questioning orders. Now was the time for action, and ensuring that his platoon was ready to take on the Covenant. He had the fullest confidence in his Marines, and knew that they would follow him into the abyss.

Captain Flannigan outlined the work details last, and Durant paid close attention as he mentioned that his platoon would need a large detail sent down for crew-served weapon ammo to be loaded up on the birds. He already had a list of ideas on who to send down. Sergeant Stone, Staff Sergeant Mason, Cruz, possibly Davis... The list went on. He leaned in and whispered to Cruz. "You'll lead the ammo detail. Take Stone, Davis, Skip, Mason, and Weatherby with you."

With that out of the way, Captain Flannigan dismissed the platoon leadership. Michael stood up and headed for the door out of the room, Cruz being right on his heel. The Lieutenant retraced his steps back to the cryo bay, and was pleased to see that the technicians had already started thawing out his platoon when he arrived. He marched over to the CPO he'd talked to early, as he assumed he was the man in charge of the cryo detail in this chamber. "When my Marines are thawed, skip the tests," he told the NCO.

"That's against SOP, sir," the Chief responded.

"I'm well aware, Chief," Durant stated. "But we're extremely pressed for time. You understand, right?"

The CPO paused for a moment, and then nodded. "I do, sir. I'll let my boys know."

"Thank you," he said, then walked off to stand by the pod that he had once occupied. When his Marines awakened, they would be in for one hell of a wake-up call.

((OOC: Alright, folks. You can post now. It's all hands on deck, because FROST DRAGON is a go. Have at it!))

[Stringer, K.]

Stringer was dreaming, as far as he could tell. He was back on his previous Op, when the longsword bomber was downed by the innies. It was replaying again, slowly, seeing his old fireteam leader getting shot in the back, the other two being killed, the bullets slowly impacting everyone and everything. Stringer could only watch as he fired back, fighting back, only this time when he ran out of ammo, there was no cavalry. The innies were rushing him, and there he was fighting off each one that he could with his knife, taking down a total of two innies and in the process of taking down a third before he suddenly felt an impact in his back, looking down to see blood splattering out of the openings in his armor.

That's when he opened his eyes suddenly, seeing the inside of the pod. He gasped for air, as he suddenly punched the inside of his cryo pod a few times, before hearing the hiss and the hatch lift. He quickly jumped forward and out of it, falling onto his knees and hands, hitting the metal floor of the cryo bay hard. He couldn't help but yell out a few curse words, a technician coming to his side quickly and trying to grab his right arm to help him up. Stringer brought his arm forward, trying to shake the man away.

"Damnit, get away! Get my fireteam woken up, you son of a bitch! Every fucking time, I wake up out of these-" Suddenly, Stringer started to gag and then throw up all of the liquid they passed for nutrients for cryo. He coughed up the remnants and then stood up, looking around the room and then down the line towards the three cryo pods next to his, which contained the rest of his fireteam. He stood there, naked, as he watched the pods slowly open and the rest of second squad's third firetam. When Gray, Silva, and Lawrence were all out of their pods and seemed coherent, Stringer instantly began to bark out an order.

"Second squad, third fireteam, get dressed, on the double! The techs seem to be skipping their test with everyone, so something is going on! I want you ladies ready to get moving once we get either a briefing, an order from higher-ups, or a damn enemy busting through that god-damn hatch leading here! Move, move, move!" With his last sentence, Stringer was already moving towards the lockers he remembered to belong to his fireteam. Stringer had them take tape and mark it with their knives. He knew it wasn't normal, but for quick situations, it was handy. Stringer already got to his locker first, as he quickly punched in the code to unlock it, and quickly dawned his digital woodland uniform. He also grabbed out a holster that would drop from his belt, then lock around his thigh and hold a M7 SMG.

He already had it cleared with Cruz before they went into cryo to have a side-arm, but Stringer took a step further and got permission to carry just the M7. No extra mags, but it was a plus over a pistol. Plus, he didn't find pistols effective in combat. Sure, they were good against human targets, but against the Covenant, he might as well try to fight one in hand-to-hand combat when it came to pistols. So, with some convincing, and some paperwork, he got clearance to carry it on the ship at all times. He did have to take the one that was assigned to him, but that was fine by him.

When Stringer was dressed, armed, and very well ready to get into what ever was going on, he slammed the locker shut and began to check the rest of his fireteam. He did have more experience than the rest of his fireteam because of the time he served already, so he was quicker at getting dressed and ready in stressful situations. He did test his team a few times, but he knew adrenaline and alarms mixed into a cocktail that would slow the inexperienced. In that respect, it seemed that everyone but Silva was almost done, Silva seeming a bit behind but not much. Stringer stepped over to her and patted her left should twice, then nodded once.

"Breathe Silva, breathe! Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fast is deadly. Breathe in and out deep and slow, and focus marine. I know you have experience, but the UNSC is not a farm-bred army. Colonial army duty may have served you well, but you are a marine in the United Nations Space Command's Marine Corps. I expect you to act like it!" Stringer gave his last sentence with a bold tone, meant to give the woman strength and conviction, and try to boost her morale. Stringer knew he would have to lead these three women, and their lives were in his hands, so he planned on getting it right the first time, and keeping them alive. He wouldn't let a repeat of Operation Grand Slam happen if he could have any word or hand in it.

Stringer looked around as he saw the rest of the platoon moving and getting dressed or speaking among themselves, as he got a bit fustrated, seeing the Lieutenant and Sergeant Cruz, but not hearing any orders or anyone telling him and his fireteam what was going on. He grunted a bit as he decided enough was enough. The alarms were going off for general quarters, so something was going on, and not knowing what is the one thing he hated to have happen.

"Anyone know what is going on?! Are we under attack or did the shit hit the fan before we got there?"

[Stone, T.]

Sergeant Thomas Jeremiah Stone awakened from his dreamless slumber much quicker than the others. His eyelids peeled back to reveal his steely grey eyes, which fixed upon the panel of frosted glass in front of him. The pod cycled and opened with a mechanical whir, and immediately he knew what was to come next.

Rather than have it come naturally and unexpectedly, however, he chose to head down a different and more direct route. Stone opened his mouth wide and inserted his index finger, jamming it into the back of his throat. Instantly his gag reflex kicked in, and a second later he was spewing multicolored bile all over the floor in front of him. He coughed and wiped away the remnants from his mouth, and then took a single ungainly step out of the freezer.

He felt himself sway forward a little, and corrected himself to maintain his balance. This was all normal and routine to him now, having gone through the process of cryogenic storage billions of times over his twenty-some odd years of service. He couldn't remember how many exactly at the moment, but it was of little importance.

What was important was figuring out what was going on. He realized that none of the Navy cryo techs present were trying to harass him with questions, which was entirely unusual and far from the norm. He glanced to his right and noticed Lieutenant Durant and Staff Sergeant Cruz standing nearby, both fully dressed and awake. That must have meant they were awakened beforehand, which also meant something was going down.

They weren't carrying weapons, so he had a feeling it wasn't that they were being boarded. However, whatever it was, it must have been important. So, Stone turned around and brought his attention to his squad, whose members were stepping out of their tubes.

"Rise 'n shine, ladies," he barked, getting their attention. "Git'cher asses in gear 'n git yer clothes on double time! It's another great day ta be a Marine!"

With that, he about-faced and headed for his locker. It didn't take him but a minute and a half to get fully dressed. Then he stepped aside to supervise his Marines as they got dressed. All the while he harassed them so that they would move faster, as he had a feeling they were in for a very quick SITREP from the El-Tee.

[McMillan, J.]

Reality tugged at the edges of Jim's awareness as he drifted away from the dream he had been having. He had been back on Propitious, sitting through one of his old professor's lecturers, eagerly taking notes. It was a pleasant dream; a happy memory, and he was disappointed to see it go. Such was life, though. So he moved on.

When he opened his eyes, he immediately felt the side effects of the prolonged hibernation. His stomach growled uncomfortably, and he felt nauseous. The benefit of being a corpsman was that he understood the reasons why he felt as he did. Right now his body's immune system was starting up again after having been dormant for so long, and was beginning the process that would eliminate the chemicals that he had been forced to ingest prior to stepping in the pod in his system.

From an academic standpoint, the cryogenic stasis process was truly fascinating. Historically, man had been trying to perfect a method in which to suspend oneself in a state of hibernation for long periods of time for centuries. Breakthroughs in the technology that would allow such a thing to be feasibly possible did not occur until the 21st Century.

Even then, the technology did not see widespread use until the beginning of the 22nd Century, when humanity started expanding its reach into the Solar System. The first military application of cryogenic hibernation occurred shortly before the onset of the Interplanetary War that sparked the creation of the United Nations Space Command in the 2160s.

The sound of the pod cycling, followed by the hatch rising into the air, brought McMillan out of his reverie. He slowly and carefully climbed out of the pod, then cursed under his breath as he discharged his stomach's contents all over the place. It took him roughly about a minute to regain control over himself, and then he stood up and looked around.

The rest of the platoon was awake, and the majority of them were stepping out of their pods. His brow arched high, wrinkling his forehead, as he realized that the cryo techs weren't trying to tend to the awakening Marines and screen them for any cryo-related health problems. He couldn't figure out why they weren't doing anything. It was standard operating procedure to check and screen every person as they came out of stasis for any medical problems that may have arisen as a direct result of prolonged hibernation.

Part of him wanted to approach one of the techs and address the issue, but he happened to notice the platoon commander and his sergeant standing nearby, seemingly awaiting for everyone to get dressed. Something must be going on, he surmised.

Shrugging, Jim made his way over to the lockers, punched in the code into the keypad, and went about donning his clothing. It took him no time at all to get dressed, and from there he decided to fall in behind the lieutenant and staff sergeant.

[Faust, M.]

Faust dreamed that she was back home, a marine with her former platoon, fighting their way through a hospital. She despised hospitals, having spent far too much time in them as a child. It was unsettling to be fighting the Covenant in the bleached white halls surrounded by all the medical machinery, bright blue alien blood painting the walls as bullets punched clean through them. A nearby explosion rocked her, she flinched opening her eyes. "Who woke me up this time? Can't you read the big...." She began before coughing, she exited her pod with all the grace of a soldier clambering out of a truck. She threw up a foul tasting mucous that apparently was meant to keep you alive or some nonsense like that.  

Wiping away a few strings of drool on the back of her hand. "Whatever the reason move your asses!" Faust barked out to her fireteam, but it equally could apply to any other marine who wasted time or wasn't moving fast enough for her liking. One the techs slipped his buddy a few bits of paper, money to be exact. They had put a bet on whether or not Faust would be in a foul mood or at least appear to be in a foul mood when she was awoken. She failed to notice the transaction however, as she was already thinking about what she needed to do and what her fireteam needed to do.

She headed over to her locker, punching in the numbers with practised ease before rapidly getting dressed. The reason Faust was in a bad mood this time happened to be because the doctor having caught her once again just before the corporal managed to find safety in her cryo tube, insisted well more of ordered her to wear a bandage over her almost healed stomach wound.
Now it burned with a righteous fury, which only served to make Faust one very grumpy lady. She moved without showing the pain, well discomfort really, she knew what pain was like and this mild burn failed to compare to being shot in the gut. Now that was agony, never before had anything like that made her cry out in such a manner. She fell in with the LT and the Sargent, watching her fireteam as they scrambled to finish getting into their clothing. 

It may be worth clarifying that her dislike or dare someone say the heretical phobia of hospitals and their various staff did not extend to medics. Medics, after all kept you alive and she owed her life to one or more of them on more occasions than she would have cared to admit. She hadn't really spoken to the new medic much, but from what she heard he sounded like a great asset to the team. 

[Gray, L.]

Gray woke, panicking from her dream as her cryo pod began thawing out. In her dream she had been reliving the Battle for New Madagascar, the previous year. She gasped for air before realising that she was still safe in her pod. Suddenly there was a faint hiss and a metallic sounding click as the door of her pod opened and Gray shakily climbed out of her pod. Almost immediately, her body began expelling the stuff given to them for cryo and after a few minutes, Gray was able to get her bearings and get to her feet, albeit with the help of a cryo tech.

Once she was on her feet, Gray realised immediately that something was going on even before Stringer, who it seemed had been thawed just seconds before her, mentioned it. Looking round quickly, she instantly spotted both Lawrence and Silva emerging from the pods next to hers. As soon as they were all grouped, Stringer told them, in no uncertain terms to get dressed and be ready to move. Gray followed Stringer and the other two to the lockers, quickly finding hers and punched in the number. As she got dressed at top speed, she momentarily looked down at the tattoo of her brother's name on her forearm.

"I will avenge you Daniel." she thought, briefly placing her hand over it, before continuing to get dressed. Once dressed Gray looked round to see how the others were doing. Stringer and Lawrence were both fully dressed, but Silva was lagging behind just a little bit. Gray watched as Stringer spoke to her, exchanging knowing looks with Lawrence. They both had been just like Silva, before going into battle at New Madagascar. Gray overheard Stringer's last sentence and smiled at Lawrence, for their previous fireteam leader had said something similar to them. Both Gray and Lawrence approached Silva when Stringer had finished speaking, with Lawrence giving Silva an encouraging smile. Standing next to Silva, Gray turned to her and said "Hey he's right you know, but we are all in this war together. Corporal Stringer, Lawrence and me are all right here with you. We are a team, we have your back and you got ours, yes?" she softly, giving Silva a warm smile.

Her smile faded as she looked and spotted Durant and Cruz waiting for everyone. A surge of unease swept through her, something was definitely going down.

[Davis, E.]

"Evan, old man Barleman needs help with the fences today," his father said, Davis frowning at the breakfast in front of him. He was always farmed out for fences. Just once he'd love to hear that someone hired him to drive a tractor. "Fifty-fifty with the money again."

"Might as well take all of it if you're going to keep charging me room and board," Davis grunted back. The conversation felt like deja vu, but he couldn't place it.

"Good idea," his father said, obviously annoyed. "Maybe I should start making you do your own work around here to."

"You mean your work," Davis shot back snidely. "There isn't enough here for both of us and even with taking half of what I earn you couldn't buy another acre."

"Watch your tone boy," his father said menacingly.

"Which means I'm right and all you can do is nitpick," Davis said, not giving any ground. "I'm tired of this crap. When you decide to treat me like an equal part of this family, maybe I'll start trying to take care of it."

"The door is there, if that's how you feel," his father roared, standing up and jamming his thumb towards the door.

"Sounds good to me," Davis said, leaving his breakfast on the table and storming towards the door. He wouldn't be back there again if he had any other options. He stormed out of the door into the bright light of day.

Davis's eyes shot open to the frosty pane in front of him, the light a noise of his dream fading away. He still felt the rage coursing through him. It was a common dream for him when they pulled him out of cryo. He blamed it on the adrenaline they shot into him when they started to wake him up. He took a dozen long breaths to try and calm his nerves, but it never worked well. The door hissed open and he stepped out onto the grated floors. He willed his body to stay upright before bending over to heave out the contents of his stomach. He wished he would remember not to eat salad before cryo. 

After his usual three heaves, he wiped away the spit and mucus, forcing his legs towards the lockers. The fact that the techs merely offered him a towel was a sure sign something was happening. Punching in the code to his locker, it popped open and he started to towel off the melting ice crystals before he could get dressed. Sergeant Stone's shout (and practiced exit of the coffin) were noted by Davis who started taking stock of his team. He also looked for Wilkas, noting her status. Seeing naked women would have been so much better if they weren't all clammy, miserable looking, and leaking mucus and bile from their mouths. Cryo was a miserable thing.

"Let's go First Team," he called out, marking each of them. Ward would likely be holding them up, being green as he was. It wouldn't matter if it weren't for the rush. Something big was happening. "We won't be last. You can't keep up we'll leave you behind."

[Mason, I.]

Mason’s eyes shot open, he could see through the pane that many of his squad were up and about. The floor around various pods were covered in the warm green slime that introduced a person’s awakening. He could taste the sour bitterness on his tongue that warned of impending regurgitation. He clenched his jaw and began taking shallow and slow breaths - it was a key to not vomiting (that and having more will power than the vomit).

As his pod door opened, he could hear the sounds of the individual in the pod next to him. A smirk ever so slightly creased his lips. Rio always had a terrible time waking from cryo. The sound of his assistant squad leader vomiting sounded almost violent. “I don’t want to go to school momma..” Rio’s sarcastic humor was cut off by a dry heave.

Mason stepped out of his pod and looked around. He briskly walked to the nearest toilet in the room over and spewed the green shit into it. After a couple of heaves he stood up and went to one of the sinks behind him to splash some water his mouth.

From there, he made his way back towards the others and headed straight to his locker. He glanced around to make sure the others were making haste. It felt good as a squad leader to see his team leaders taking charge of their teams efficiently. It made his job easier and made his squad look better when nobody needed to be babied by him - and by babied, he of course meant putting a boot up their ass.

Rio was having the usual tough time, but he was managing. “Hey, you people,” he said groggily - pointing at his team with one hand while pulling on one of his boots with his other, “hurry the fuck up,” he said with a grin. Most of them chuckled, “roger that Corporal.”

You could never tell that Mason was quick at dressing by watching him. His movements weren’t rushed, but they were fluid and efficient. In no time at all he was fully dressed and observing his squad to ensure that they were making good time. In most scenarios, it was a hurry up and wait mentality - but by the looks of things this time, there wouldn’t be much waiting around.

Corporal Rio approached him after dressing; “Any ideas, Staff Sergeant?” He was referring to the current situation. Mason hesitated for a second, he had almost forgotten that he had gotten a promotion shortly before becoming an icicle. He glanced down at his rank insignia to be sure that he had equipped the correct one - three chevrons and a rocker (check). “Not yet,” he replied and then nodded in the direction of Lieutenant Durant and Staff Sergeant Cruz, “I’m sure we’ll know soon enough. Hopefully something to do with the Covenant.” This was most likely the case, but there had been a few select times when they had been awoken for routine cryo pod maintenance - he found those times to highly irritating. Like waking in the middle of the night only to find that it is immensely hard to fall back to sleep in a timely manner.

Rio was about to respond but glanced back at Stringer and his team. It seemed Silva was having some difficulty but was coming around.

"Anyone know what is going on?! Are we under attack or did the shit hit the fan before we got there?"

“Corporal Stringer,” Mason responded, “If we were under attack, you’d know the moment you awoke. As far as the rest - we’ll find out soon enough. Also, this is Oscar Company, if you’re going to fit in as an NCO here, at least wait until you’re bleeding out before losing your cool.”

[Deleted]

After Dirk grabbed a brush he gently began to remove loose sediment from what would have appeared to be a thagomizer of a hesperosaurus. Eager for this to be a more complete skeleton, perhaps someone may even want to talk to me about this find, Baldwin thought. He was massively interested in becoming a paleontologist, probably not though, but it would be awesome. His pocket became alive with a familiar alarm sound.

His eyes snapped open, the alarm in that memory was replaced with all the commotion caused by the thawing of the marines. Dirk collapsed and all at once expelled his stomach contents cleanly in one go. After that the Lance Corporal recovered himself, and brought himself to his feet. He took a single glance around and gathered what was going on.

Dirk took a slow and deep breathe and began to autonomously dress and prepare for the situation. Zoning out all of the noise going on around him. Baldwin listened for key words that may have involved him like: Lance Corporal, Dirk, Baldwin, Second platoon, first squad, or second fire team. The Lance Corporal preferred to to be in his own world while getting ready, he felt it helped steady his thoughts and aided in focus.

Upon being dressed Baldwin grabbed his claw and put it on, good luck will follow. He looked around and noticed people at different stages of being dressed. I never really thought of myself as a fast dresser.

[Silva, J.]

Silva dreamed she was back home in one of the most pleasant and beautiful places, the village square lay covered in snow while soft flakes fell from the cloudy grey sky. She stood in her uniform, a marine uniform rather than her militia one watching childhood friends engage in a fierce snow ball fight. The childish laughter echoed eerily around the otherwise empty square. Suddenly the distinctive roar of Innie rocket artillery was heard, the children played obliviously, Silva tried to call out a warning to them but the rockets impacted, the scene vanished with a blinding white light. Her eyes flickered open and she found herself inside her pod.

The pod door opened and she clambered out, getting to her feet before coughing heavily. Silva made her way over to the locker, her locker before opening it. She got slowly into her uniform, pausing every so often to cough. This caused her to be slower than most of her comrades in arms, clearly significantly as Stringer came over to what she initially thought to be him helping her out... Perhaps thinking that she was choking. Instead he spoke something about the army and the UNSC, it left her feeling confused. Silva was motivated for this, whatever the mission, whatever happened she possessed a seemingly endless reserve of enthusiasm. 
"Of course sir." She coughed out. "I didn't get through basic through the use of my good lucks alone."

Gray spoke to her next, she knew her fireteam was with her. After all they all shared the same enemy, they needed to win the war and go home. "Again of course, ready to give those xeno bastards the what for." Silva may have never fought the Covenant before, but at least she appeared eager to get to grips with the enemy for the first time. She wanted to defend what was closest to her. The best way to do that would be by finding the enemy and destroying them. 
This war would not end until every single last alien was dead, time to fill hell up with dead aliens. 

Silva just before cryo had picked up a relatively minor chesty cough, however this cough disliked being in a freezer just as much as she did. She tried to prevent herself from coughing again, she could have killed for a glass of water, or maybe juice from one of the farms back home. God this cough was frustrating to put up with, Silva resisted the strong impulse to cough again, any more she might draw attention to herself or interrupt one of the officers as they where speaking. 
She was a marine, one of the best soldiers in the entire UNSC, gone where the days of militia grunt now she was a marine grunt. No more part time soldiering for her. 

[Furby, J.]

The worst part of being a Marine stationed aboard ship was not the lack of space, privacy, or things to do. It was cryo. Hands down. No contest.

That was the first thing to cross the mind of Private First Class Jayson as he awakened from over a month's worth of time in stasis. When the door opened, he shambled out of his pod like a drunk who'd far surpassed his limits. It was an uphill struggle for him to keep upright, as his knees threatened to give out from under him.

And then, as it did every damn time, the nausea reared its ugly head and slammed him like a runaway freight train. Without warning or control, he hunched over and regurgitated whatever crap the techs had pumped him full of. The putrid scent of bile lingered in the air, and as Furby turned his head, he realized why. Puke covered the floors of the cryo bay, put there by each of the awakening Marines. It was disgusting, though there was nothing anyone could really do about it. Such was the reality of waking from the freezers.

In response to all the crud on the deck, a detail of techs rushed in the room with mops and scuzz brushes. Jay ignored them as they started the arduous task of cleaning up the mess, and carefully lumbered over to the lockers as he regained his situational awareness and realized that both Durant and Cruz were fully dressed and waiting on them.

As he went about getting dressed, Lance Corporal Avery appeared next to him. "The boot's still back there pukin' his brains out," his friend said.

"I told him to watch how much he ate," Furby replied, shaking his head.

Avery chuckled. "I think he's learned his lesson, bro."

Furby nodded as he finished buttoning his blouse. "I better help him out before the lifers sink their teeth into him."

With that, he turned around and ran over to Ward's side.